Paper Cut
by FDR Babe
Summary: Something so simple as a paper cut finally tips John over the edge of his self control, and into emotional turmoil.


**PAPER CUT**

If there was one lesson that his time in the military had taught John, it was that of self-control. Admittedly, a valuable lesson when living in close quarters with the likes of Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate.

There were precious few times that John had lost that self-control since joining the army, but today was one of those days when the edge was precariously close. So close in fact that all it took to tip him over was a paper cut. A common, measly, happens-all-the-time paper cut.

He wasn't quite sure what he had done to deserve the stupendously miserable kind of day he was experiencing, but clearly the Fates must upset with him. Had he accidently stepped on a nearly extinct insect? Perhaps he had inadvertently cut in line in front of a cancer patient at Tesco? Or could it be that Mycroft Holmes felt John was insufficiently watching over his little brother and had contacts far beyond the British Government?

It had all started the evening before when John had been informed by a former member of his army unit that a fellow soldier – and a good friend to John – had committed suicide. Like John, the soldier had been invalided out of the army due to a severe injury, and not being able to adapt back into civilian life, had taken his life.

The death of his friend had given way to nightmare-filled sleep leaving John feeling groggy and disoriented in the morning as he headed out late to work, forcing him to skip breakfast.

The surgery was more chaotic than usual with a higher than normal amount of combative patients and tearful children accompanied by anxiety-ridden mothers. Squeeze into the madness a hurried lunch consisting of a few stale biscuits found in the lunchroom and a tepid cup of bitter tea, and John was more than willing to call it a day by quitting time.

Alas, the doctor's hellish day had not yet completed its cycle as he soon found out when an accident in the Tube and insufficient funds for a taxi forced him to take a _very_ circuitous bus route home to 221B.

With fatigue exuding from every pore, John dragged himself up the steps to the flat and opening the door, exhaled a sigh of relief at the seeming normalcy of his surroundings. Perhaps his bad luck had finally changed. No malodorous smells greeted his nose. No plumes of toxic smoke greeted his eyes. Yes, indeed, things were looking up.

Making his way through the kitchen, his flatmate greeted him with the usual Sherlockian grunt, not wanting to be distracted from the latest experiment in progress. John threw his jacket over the arm of his favorite chair, settling into its welcoming depth. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes for several moments, trying to regain some semblance of the inner peace that had been so severely shattered that day.

As tempting as a hot cuppa was, the doctor decided to rest a few minutes in the coziness of his chair before getting back up. His eyes settled on the day's newspaper, and John reached over to the coffee table to grab it. And that's when it happened – the tipping point. Turned to just the right angle, the inside of his index finger caught the edge of the paper's pages, and a sharp, brief pain shot through his finger.

It was a typical paper cut, and not a particular bad one at that. No blood was even involved. Yet, the instant physical reaction to the pain – that of anger – unleashed an emotional storm that John was helpless to stop.

Throwing the newspaper to the floor in an irrational rage, he sucked on the wounded finger in an attempt to ease the inevitable sting that accompanies such cuts. The anger was quickly replaced by much stronger and less controllable emotions – despair, sadness, loneliness – all compounded by an overall weariness. To John's horror, he could feel a tightness building in his upper chest and working its way up into his throat, while a telltale stinging of his eyes signaled the imminent arrival of tears. It was as if the paper cut had sliced not only the flesh of his finger, but also invisible tethers, unleashing years of emotional trauma and distress that John had somewhat successfully restrained until that moment.

Knowing that the dam holding back his repressed emotions had finally been breached and would flood at any moment, John leapt to his feet and sprinted desperately for his bedroom hoping to make it to the sanctuary of his space before Sherlock could question him on the crisis he was certain was visible on his face. Bounding desperately up the steps to his room, he hardly heard Sherlock's concerned, "_John?_" before plunging into his room, slamming the door shut and locking it.

He had barely collapsed onto his bed before a deep sob ripped its way out of his throat, followed by a storm of body-wrenching tears as he wept himself into complete exhaustion, and finally into a restless sleep, curled into the fetal position with his pillow clutched tightly to his chest.

Several hours later, John awoke feeling emotionally numb and physically drained. Dragging himself off the bed and down the stairs, he made his way to bathroom to wash his face. On the way, he noticed how quiet the flat seemed and assumed that Sherlock had heard and been disturbed by his breakdown, and never being one to deal willingly with emotions, had left the flat.

Oddly, John felt conflicted at the thought of Sherlock's abandonment, wanting the comfort of his friend's presence, yet simultaneously relieved he did not have to face a relentless examination as his flatmate deduced the cause of the breakdown.

Looking at his reddened eyes and puffy face in the bathroom mirror, John decided on a shower, hoping that his luck had changed enough to provide him with enough hot water.

Dressed in a comfortable pair of pajama pants and one of his favorite soft sweaters, John felt somewhat more humanized following a long, hot shower. Padding into the kitchen, John stopped short at the sight before him. Free of Sherlock's scientific equipment for the first time ever, the table was set with a tablecloth and matching china, silverware, and glasses for two. Several candles sputtered away cheerily in the center surrounded by what John recognized by sight and smell as several of his favorite dishes from Angelo's. In the background, music from one of his preferred jazz groups played softly. All in all, it was an atmosphere designed to relax and soothe.

"Ah, John. Have a seat." Sherlock waved John to the table while proceeding to pour each of them a glass of red wine from the bottle he cradled in his hands.

"Sherlock, what is this all about?" queried John with a puzzled expression. "If this is some sort of experiment, let me tell you right now I'm not in the mood for it."

So brief was the hurt and doubtful expression that flashed across Sherlock's face, John nearly missed it. "You have clearly had a trying day, John. I am merely attempting to reproduce your endeavors to cheer me when I am in ill humor," his flatmate responded.

In return, John merely gave his friend a nod and quick smile and began helping himself to the heavenly-smelling food in front of him – a sign of acceptance of Sherlock's efforts.

The two flatmates enjoyed their dinner (or what little of it Sherlock actually ate, though he tried his best for John's sake). The meal was accompanied by easy conversation, though both shied away from discussing the causes and effects of John's miserable day, settling instead on some of the recent crimes reported in the news.

Upon completing the meal, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, dragging the doctor over to the living area and settling him onto the couch. The telly was turned on to a _Doctor Who_ marathon, and Sherlock returned to the kitchen arriving back some minutes later with a perfectly made cup of tea (_who knew he had it in him?)._ The consulting detective proceeded to seat himself on the other end of the couch with his legs stretched lengthways, and with various twists and yanks, managed to pull John toward him so that the doctor was sitting between his legs, John's back resting against Sherlock's chest. The consulting detective proceeded to wrap his long arms around his friend.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Really, John. I would think it is quite obvious. I am providing you with comfort. Now, just relax."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head in amused resignation. Somehow, his flatmate never failed to surprise. It was at that moment that he knew that for all of Sherlock's annoying and rude mannerisms and often-erratic behavior, that the "good man" Lestrade had hoped would one day emerge, was already there – just hidden.

"Sherlock?" he whispered drowsily from the comfort and warmth of the embrace.

"Yes, John?"

"Thank you."

As he slipped into the blissful and welcome arms of Morpheus, John was certain he felt a tender kiss placed on the top of his head.

FIN


End file.
